


The Ache of Adoration

by WhoopsOK



Series: Adoration [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Broken Grace, Cutting, Declarations Of Love, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Incest, Loss of Grace, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Mutually Possessive Behavior, Pain, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sadism, Scarification, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 06:45:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12030378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoopsOK/pseuds/WhoopsOK
Summary: That, however, doesn’t stop Sam’s stupid mouth from overriding his brain to blurt out, “Think you could engrave my ribs again?”(Castiel is a Winchester and Winchesters are possessive of their own.)





	The Ache of Adoration

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags, doll, I want you to have a good time. 
> 
> Consent issues because Dean walks in on something while uninformed as to what is happening. I promise they talk it out.
> 
> …My whole writing profile can be summed up by “This is longer than I meant for it to be, but here we are.”

After the fallout and Castiel’s return, he had described it as though his grace had grown back slightly crooked.

Even without an exact frame of reference for the sensation, he’d said it was like a bone that had been broken and healed before it was properly reset. He could still do things, but moving too quickly or too far strained in a way it hadn’t before, _hurt_ if he wasn’t careful. Of course, that hadn’t stopped him from trying, but Sam and Dean are not fools. They notice when he heals them, it doesn’t work quite like it used to and, more importantly, they notice he gets winded every single time.

Though he assures them he’s not at risk of serious damage, it scares them more than they’d like to admit to see him trembling and heaving for breath after healing a gash on Sam’s forehead. They ask him… Well, “ask” is a bit too kind of a term, they _tell_ him to take it easy. If it grows back on its own, great, if it doesn’t, then they’ll do this the old fashioned way. They’d all agreed to that.

When they have to deal with a case involving a cursed radioactive lizard that can spit acid – hey, they aren’t just ghostbusters anymore, go figure – they tell him to just toss the singed clothes, they’ll take him to get some more when they get out of the boonies. That means while Dean is out getting burgers for dinner, Castiel comes out of the motel bathroom with Dean’s shirt dangling around his thighs and a pair of sweatpants slouching around his waist.

Sam had been drinking a beer, but suddenly his mouth dries out. When Castiel comes to sit beside him on the couch and Sam gets hit with the warm combination of their scents, his mind goes fuzzy. He’s familiar enough with the sudden haze of want that takes over that he’s braced for it, acknowledges it and suppresses it to the clenching of his fists.

That, however, doesn’t stop Sam’s stupid mouth from overriding his brain to blurt out, “Think you could engrave my ribs again?” He winces when Castiel looks up sharply from the television, confusion twisting his brow.

“That…” Castiel pauses. “That would probably cause more harm than good as of late,” he explains apologetically, eyeing Sam with concern. “My name will not afford you the same protections as—”

“S’not about protection, Cas,” Sam says, waving his hand, now a little embarrassed at his outburst. “Never mind, don’t worry about it,” he mumbles, taking a swig of his beer and turning back to the TV. He tries to ignore the way his hair stands on end when Castiel’s attention stays on him.

 “What is it about then?” he asks after a few moments.

Sam laughs uncomfortably and considers lying politely. But he shrugs when it occurs to him he _does_ want Castiel to know, even if he hadn’t meant to let his hindbrain take the wheels like that. Sam is the feelings guy, the “ _use-your-words_ ” guy. Castiel will also listen to him get the whole thing out without judging, or at least, without judging in the middle of it.

“I was just thinking,” he admits softly. “Dean and I are brothers and…” he laughs again, long-sufferingly, “He’s a part of who I am, sometimes like we’re almost _one_ thing. He raised me, yeah, but we…” Something strange and heated comes over his voice when he chokes out, “Even if we were miles apart, _somebody_ would be able to tell were each other’s. We have the same blood, you know?”

Castiel’s face flickers slowly towards understanding. “And we don’t?”

“And we don’t,” Sam sighs. “I know that’s stupid. ‘ _Family don’t end in blood_ ’ and all. Don’t get me wrong, you’re still a part of us, too. It was just…” he waffles, “impulse.”

“Impulse?” Castiel parrots doubtfully, “To desire tangible evidence of our bond enough to request it?”

Sam feels his face go hot at that, because he doesn’t really want to explain it’s an impulse he’s had for years.

It’s been years since he’s worn Dean’s clothes. When they were younger, he spent most of the years before the growth spurt that sent him up over Dean’s head wearing his brother’s hand-me-downs. At first, he’d hated it, but eventually, it came to be a sign of private comfort. Even when he was away from Dean, he could still shrug into his brother’s old jacket and feel something like home. At night, he could turn over and tuck his face in the collar of his shirt and sleep to the smell of— not gun metal, or blood, or cheap motel, but the unique combination of it all through a haze that was entirely Dean.

And now, it’s Castiel sitting there in his brother’s clothes, lost as he’s ever been, looking slightly awkward and exposed but, more importantly, looking like he’s at peace with being _Dean Winchester’s_.

That ties them together in a way nothing else could in Sam’s mind and it feels dissonant, almost, for him to not bear any marking of Castiel’s presence. Yes, of course, it’s just clothes, but he’s grown so used to these brief sparks of possessiveness, that he and takes whatever little signs of connection he can get.

(Otherwise, he projects them onto himself. In another life, he would’ve been inclined to more tattoos. He would carry memories and names on his skin so everyone would know who he’s belonged to and who he has claimed for himself. Sam doesn’t want the blood and pain of a Winchester love story except on the days when he feels the most love. Right now, he is _swelling_ with love for Castiel.)

Sam clears his throat, looking away. “It’s just a feeling, Cas,” he says, giving him a quick smile, “I still consider you a brother, blood, bones, or not.” He’s gratified when Castiel seems to preen, going a little pink in a way having fully functioning grace never allowed for.

Castiel seems content to think on that, so Sam lets him, turning back to Jeopardy. He feels good enough that he doesn’t even complain when Dean comes back and makes them watch _The Lone Ranger_ instead. Piled on the couch with his brothers, smelling of greasy food, cheap motel, and a perfect combination of Winchester does his heart good. Sam is laughing.

When they get back to the bunker, Sam is mostly not thinking about it anymore. The low level of possessiveness he’s used to ignoring is back now that Castiel has picked out his own clothes, something that is a combination of over-layered and disheveled that makes Dean smile proudly while Sam tries not to do the same. It’s as endearing as Castiel usually is, and doesn’t lead Sam nearly as close to temptation as Dean’s pajamas had.

That’s why when Castiel strides into the library _back_ in Dean’s pajamas, looking a lot more confident, Sam goes hot and cold all over.

 “I would have to sleep after,” Castiel says as though that explains everything, and it sort of does because Sam doesn’t have to reach to figure out what Castiel is referring to.

“Cas, I told you, it was just—” No, it wasn’t ‘ _just_ ’ anything. “You don’t have to—”

“I know that, Sam,” Castiel cuts in gently, but now he looks sheepishly down at his feet. “I just… I was thinking about it as well.” His eyes catch on Sam’s chest and Sam is suddenly aware of his own breathing, how it’s – almost certainly visibly – quickened. “It was necessity when I did it the last time,” Castiel confesses, “I wasn’t thinking about it beyond wanting to protect you…”

Sam doesn’t miss the open-endedness of that statement. He swallows, eyeing Castiel cautiously. “And now?”

Castiel starts to speak, but then clenches his jaw. His eyes are bright and intense when he drags them away from Sam’s torso, unflinchingly meeting his gaze. “I want you to carry me with you always.”

The warmth that spreads throughout Sam’s body suffuses up into his cheeks, but Sam doesn’t feel the least bit of shame, that’s not what’s coloring his face. It’s not what’s coloring Castiel’s, either, when Sam replies, “I’m glad you want that, too.”

When Castiel moves towards him, Sam sets his book aside and stands. Castiel’s concept of personal space has always been shaky, but far from complaining, Sam welcomes the warmth of his closeness. He takes a breath and Castiel’s fingers settle on his sternum.

For a moment, there is nothing put the press of Castiel’s hand, nothing but Castiel looking up at him – perhaps giving him a moment to change his mind. Sam has no reservations and the second Castiel accepts that, Sam hears a popping sound inside his head and the same white hot pain he’d remembered flashes across his rib cage. He grunts, a full-body wince making him shuffle in place. Castiel catches him by the arms, though it seems more for his benefit than Sam’s. Some of the blood has left his face.

“Is it bad?” Castiel asks, reaches for him again, “I can—”

Sam catches him by the wrists embarrassingly frantically.

“ _Don’t heal it_ ,” he gasps, adjusting to the ache of breathing. “The pain isn’t that bad, I...” he shudders, the fire in his chest now dull and throbbing instead of lightning sharp; hot in a way that is very nearly comforting. His _soul_ feels settled under the aching, like it’s being pressed and massaged into a shape it’s been longing to be in for ages. _He is Castiel’s, Castiel has willingly claimed him; that is a part of his identity now._ The peacefulness that comes over him in that moment startles tears into his eyes. “I want to feel it,” he confesses shakily.

Castiel stares at him for a long moment, but the concern has bled from his face, replaced by something so like adoration Sam has to look away.

When Castiel pulls his wrist out of Sam’s grasp, Sam reluctantly lets him go. He also sucks in a harsh breath when, instead of moving away, Castiel’s hands come back, this time gently cradling either side of his rib cage. It smarts like a bitch.

He doesn’t want him to stop.

“I think,” Castiel licks his lips, eyes trailing along Sam’s ribs as if reading line by line. “I understand your ‘impulse’ to ask for this.”

Sam’s breath is shuddering, each drag pressing Castiel’s hands against his freshly carved bones. “Oh?” he wheezes.

“Yes. It is different for me, but I…” Castiel’s eyes are dark with longing when he turns his gaze up to meet Sam’s. He speaks intimately, as though he feels this should be a secret but can’t force himself to deny Sam the truth. “I like that I can feel myself inside you.”

Sam abruptly feels like the air in the room has gone thin.

(In a flash of pure, love-laden desire, he sees himself kissing Castiel. That isn’t what this was about, but the thought comes to him with no prompting, the clashing of their mouths together, sinking his teeth into the flesh of Castiel’s lip. He can’t decide between the idea of Castiel whimpering and bowing beneath him or grunting and shoving him against a wall, pinning him by the _chest_ , and just _taking_ it _._ Sam wants, he wants so many things, any way he can get them, any way Castiel will give them.)

Sam’s heart is hammering under Castiel’s hand as he wonders how much of that shows in his eyes.

“I should… lay down for a while,” Castiel says haltingly, but doesn’t move at first.

“Yeah,” Sam says a bit belatedly when he realizes Castiel is waiting on him. He shakes himself slightly, pulling Castiel in for an indulgently tender hug. Castiel’s arms are gentle around him and Sam is touched, and mildly tickled, by the consideration. “Yeah, of course, sorry. Go get some rest, man.”

“You as well,” Castiel says over his shoulder before finally pulling away.

The subsiding of the pain when Castiel takes his arms away feels like loss, but Sam restrains the urge to catch him when he turns away. The knowledge of Castiel’s presence, the permanence of it, is still aching bright against his ribs, not far, never far at all. He feels small and blessed when he whispers, “Thanks.”

Castiel’s face goes open and soft, a small smile kicking up the corner of his mouth as he nods. “Of course. Good night, Sam.”

Sam waves, “Night, Cas.”

As soon as Castiel turns down the hall, Sam lets his hand fall, reflexively cradled against his chest, and shuts his eyes.

 

//

 

Here is one secret: Sam is not gentle with himself when he drags his fingers up, down, and across his sensitive ribs in the darkness of his room that night.

Here is another secret: Sam is even less gentle when he strokes his arousal, throbbing in time with the pain, as he whispers the name carved under his fingertips.

 

//

 

The next morning, Sam’s ribs are slightly bruised and he probably did himself no favors by messing with them.

As a hunter, however, he is more than used to wearing his pain with a level expression, especially if he’s otherwise in a good mood and he’s in a _great_ mood. He goes to breakfast feeling light and happy; slight tenderness aside, he’s practically bubbling. Castiel sees it on his face and brightens instantly from where he’d been suspiciously contemplating his eggs. Dean sees it on his face and teasingly asks what sort of dream had given him _that_ face. And nudges him with his elbow.

And see, Sam should’ve dodged that, but he was reaching over the fridge to get at the good coffee he tried to keep hidden from Dean. Instead, he spills the rest of the damn can and nearly elbows Dean in the head jerking back to cradle his throbbing ribs. “ _Shit!!_ ”

“Woah, what the hell?” Dean says and, to his credit, looks instantly apologetic. “Are you hurt?” he goes to check for himself, but Sam is cognizant enough to stumble out of the way this time.

“No, I just—”

“I should’ve healed you,” Castiel says, jumping to his feet, face alight with remorse. “I knew it might hurt more this time, I had to exert more force to make sure it was precise.”

“It’s fine, Cas,” Sam says, rubbing the spot gently.

“This time?” Dean blinks at Castiel, realization then shock passing over his face in sequence. “You _tagged_ him again?”

Sam is, yet again, surprised by his brother’s perceptive abilities. He isn’t sure why, Dean’s always been smart, he _knows_ that, but he is still definitely shocked at being so easily pegged. It isn’t that it was meant to be a secret, but he just… he has never even been the type of guy to _buy_ anything on impulse, so something this permanent, well. Dean would probably see the emotional backdrop to that a mile away and Sam isn’t sure he’d take the explanation without scrutiny or harassment.

“Yes, he asked me to,” Castiel answers and Sam tries to pretend his face isn’t getting warm when Dean turns to look at him.

“…Anything I should be worried about?” Dean asks slowly and sounds genuinely concerned enough that Sam sobers, relaxes.

“No, no, nothing like that. I just…” he clears his throat, “I just wanted it back.”

“Does it… _do_ anything?” Dean asks, ever practical, even when perplexed. “Can you call him on angel radio?”

“‘ _Angel radio’_ is for angels, so no,” Castiel answers flatly, just the barest hint of an eye roll. “It’s the same as before, it just says he’s under my—” he stops suddenly.

Sam and Dean glance at each other in confusion, but then Castiel meets Sam’s gaze and Sam remembers his own words. _It’s not about protection._ Not exactly.

Castiel puts his shoulders back, defiantly. “It says he’s mine,” he modifies.

Dean’s eyebrows about fly up off his face and Sam’s heart trips in his chest, _Heaven help him_.

“Uh-huh…” Dean murmurs with a smirk, but Sam feels something odd in his stomach because Dean doesn’t actually look like he’s joking around _at all_. He turns back to Castiel before Sam can start to guess what _that’s_ about. “You still willin’ to claim us?”

Castiel squints at him. “I _have_ claimed you. My name is just,” his eyes shift back to Sam, “symbolic adornment at this juncture.”

“ _Adornment_ ,” Sam huffs, embarrassed and pleased at the warmth in Castiel’s gaze, but also the phrasing itself. Adornment. It makes him sound like something lovingly decorated, something _adored_ and meant to be kept. He scratches at his cheek, shuffling giddily.

Dean’s lips lift towards a genuine smile when he notices the sheepish joy on Sam’s face, the bemused pleasure growing on Castiel’s. “Just signing on the dotted line, then?”

“Something like that, yes,” Castiel agrees.

Sam can tell Dean is searching for something when he turns to consider him. He can’t tell _what_ exactly, but for all the amusement in his face, he doesn’t actually appear teasing. He’s thinking and Sam will give him the time to do so, even if the close scrutiny makes his skin feel like it’s on too tight. There’s never been a moment in his life when being the sole focus of his brother’s attention hasn’t affected him and now is no different. He can feel the two people he loves most in the world like they’re underneath his skin – tucked away and safe beside his heart, and he… He’s just really happy today, ok?

And Sam doesn’t know anything in the world better than he knows his brother. So when he watches Dean’s face shift, he knows exactly what it means: he’s not going to laugh at Sam or even affectionately tease him – he understands what Sam wants from this. Sam bubbles inside because they’re in this together, they always have been and Sam is not above showing the happiness he feels upon being reminded that they always will be. He laughs and Dean shakes his head.

“Fine,” Dean says after a moment, turning to face Castiel squarely. “There an entrance fee to this gentleman’s club, or what?”

When Castiel just squints at him again, Sam clears his throat again. “He’s asking if there’s a reason you wouldn’t mark him, too.”

Castiel blinks. “You didn’t ask me,” he answers as though it should’ve been obvious.

Dean bristles at the tone. “So an engraved invitation, then?”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam begins, but then Castiel crosses his arms.

“Actually, yes.”

“Come again?” Dean says, frowning when Castiel just folds his arms.

“Sam told me why he wanted the marks back,” Castiel explains, “Why do _you_?”

Dean stares at him. “ _Seriously_.”

“That’s the ‘ _fee’_ ,” Castiel sniffs and Sam does his best not to laugh at their standoff.

They all know Dean is going to cave, but not before acting like a petulant child about it. “I didn’t get to hear _Sam’s_ reasons, why does he get to—?”

“It felt like a missing piece,” Sam cuts in before Dean can even go there. He waits for Dean to look at him. “I carry you with me everywhere, Dean,” then just to get a rise out of his brother, he smiles fondly at Castiel, “Didn’t feel right not to have Cas, too.”

Castiel goes flush, but his mouth quivers between trying to stay primly annoyed for Dean’s sake and wanting to match Sam’s smile.

Sam sees the exact moment that it gets gross enough for Dean to start talking.

“Ok, _ok_ , can we just—?” Dean rubs a hand over his face, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling before he speaks. “Look, Cas, it’d be like a signpost, ok? Not just for other bastards to know that I’m…” he takes a breath, forces the words out, “that I’m _taken_ and someone will put up a fight for me. It’s a signpost for _me_ , too, alright? _._ ”

Castiel considers that. “How so?”

Dean’s a little flush now and looks frustrated by it. “It’s not like Sam. I don’t really care about it being there for someone else, so they can read ‘ _Castiel was here_. _’_ I want it to mean I’m…” his eyes flicker towards Sam, “I want it to mean we’re _something_ to you. Something… I don’t know, man, something you wouldn’t…” He waves his hand vaguely, gestures away from himself.

Something you wouldn’t abandon.

Sam feels an ache in his chest that has nothing to do with his ribs.

“That your home is…” Dean motions between the two of them. “That you’re _here_ , future tense.”

The look on Castiel’s face has gone serious, but the pain in his expression is minute and not caused by Dean asking something he can’t give. He moves towards Dean deliberately and Sam eases back to give him room to invade Dean’s space, watching rapt.

“Ask me why I want to mark you, too,” Castiel requests softly.

Sam watches the way Dean’s throat bobs before he complies, his attempt at false casualness lost in the roughness of his voice, “Why do you wanna mark me up, Cas?”

“I don’t want anyone, even _you two_ , to ever doubt where my loyalties lie. I’m yours as much as you’re mine,” Castiel answers emphatically, then softens his voice. “I’m going to be with you always, not just because I choose to be, but because I _want_ to.”

The way Dean’s eyes go wide is familiar for all the ways it isn’t. It’s not shock at Castiel’s words, Sam understands, it’s Dean’s shock at his own belief of them. Dean, possibly more than Sam has ever understood before this moment, has longed to be possessed by someone who would promise forever, knowing what that could entail. Dean has longed for someone who honestly _, truly_ just wanted to be with him (with his past, and his probable future, and his prickly edges, and his obsessive, all-encompassing love of his little brother). Castiel is the first to try to swallow that whole without choking on even the idea. The Winchester’s are made of terrifyingly unique stuff and it’s unsurprising, it feels _right_ that Sam can see that stuff shimmering in Castiel as well.

Sam swallows the heat in his chest, the tears in his throat and watches the emotions play across his brother’s face before settling on warmth. Anyone who can earn that level of open affection from his brother is deeply, profoundly loved and Sam feels them click into place together. He startles when Dean suddenly whips his shirt off, though.

“Ok,” Dean says and his voice is soft, he clears his throat shaking himself and squaring his shoulders. “Ok, let her rip.”

Castiel tips his head in confusion, but puts his hands – _both_ Sam notes, biting back a smirk – on Dean’s chest. Just as he had before, he waits a breath for Dean to say anything, for Dean to pull back and second guess this. Dean just raises his eyebrows, drawing in a breath with Castiel before Sam here’s a muffled _pop!_ and Dean’s breath rushes out on a string of swears.

“ _Son of a bitch!_ ” Dean shouts, staggering backwards and catching himself on the counter.

Sam catches Castiel by the arm when he wobbles, directing him back to his chair. “Are you ok?”

“Is _he_ ok?” Dean exclaims.

“Don’t be such a baby.”

“He’s not the one half dressed with fresh _holes_ drilled in his ribs, you bitch!”

“You didn’t have to take your shirt off,” Castiel points out, shakily taking a sip of juice, some of the color returning to his face. “And you’re welcome.”

Sam laughs as Dean scowls at him, rubbing gingerly at his sore ribs. “ _You’re_ welcome, _assbutt_.”

 

//

 

Dean Winchester is like his brother in this way: he spends the day, well into the evening, strumming his ribs like a guitar, privately enjoying each note of pain.

Dean Winchester is dislike his brother in this way: he ignores his arousal, denies it, wraps his hand around a bottle instead and tries not to think any names.

 

//

 

Sam thinks about liquor and vicodin like the inverse of shower sex.

Shower sex is one of those things that might seem hot beforehand and you might look back on fondly, maybe even masturbate to afterwards, but in the middle of it, it’s a bit of a shitshow. Someone Sam’s height would have to crouch to reach any holes and there’s steam making the air thick to breathe and tile making everything _slippery_ and—ok well, look, if Sam blacked out from a cramp while trying to fuck someone in a shower in college, that’s none of your business, it’s not the point right now.

The point is that most pain killers say not to mix with alcohol with good reason. Beforehand, Sam knows that and has never felt the need to experiment with what might come out of him if he tried it. Afterwards, he will remember the hazy space after he made the decision to do it anyway and curse himself for letting Dean talk him into ignoring warning labels.

But at the moment, he’s feeling like he stuck his arm in a meat grinder and is seeing double with pain. He takes the pills (plural) and the double-shots (also plural), before Dean is willing to put his shoulder back in place and stitch him up. Castiel has already strained his grace to the point of a bloody nose to stave off the majority of the damage, _fucking rougarous._

After, Sam is swimming in that weird space that makes him feel like he’s outside his own body, both from the pain itself and the meds he took to stave it off. He’s drunk and high and not paying enough attention to what he’s saying. Because Dean is in the shower and Castiel is sitting on the bed watching him in the way that Dean had tried so hard to train him out of but never quite managed to. Sam doesn’t mind it in the slightest, especially not now that Castiel is leaning on his good shoulder. It’s probably partly in an attempt to keep him flat after he’d expressed he felt good enough to clean Baby’s back seat in apology for bleeding on her, but Sam is also glad for how close Castiel is, the fact that he’s resting on Sam.

Dean is showering first because he had the most of Sam’s blood on him, but Sam can see now that the remnants of Castiel’s nosebleed are still on his face in addition to Sam’s blood on his hands and sleeves. His mind veers off course at the sight, a single-minded flash of violent imagery making his breath come out on a low sound. Because even when he was—because he was this way even _Before_ and he had to watch himself, but hell made him different, _everything_ is different now.

It occurs to him that Castiel is an angel (and he could survive it, could survive Sam).

“Sam…” Castiel says patiently and Sam realizes he’s been petting Castiel’s hair.

“Sometimes I wanna cut you up,” Sam finds himself slurring in place of an appropriate response.

Castiel goes still. “What?” he says and tenses when Sam’s hand trails down his throat to his chest before falling harmlessly to the mattress. He doesn’t actually want Castiel’s pain, that’s not it. He hides his face against Castiel’s arm, presses tighter when it makes his skin tingle.

“I wanna carve our name in your skin so the whole world knows you’re ours,” he clarifies dazedly. He’s very drunk and very high and very, very in love. He’s outside himself enough that he doesn’t even feel the usual flash of fear or guilt at the thought.

He also doesn’t realize Castiel has gone silent for too long until he speaks up, softly, hesitantly, “…Ok, Sam.”

Sam pulls his face away from Castiel’s sleeve at the tone, distressed. “You know you’re ours, right?” he says, and he knows he’s gripping Castiel’s arm too tightly, he just doesn’t care, he doesn’t want Castiel sounding that uncertain. He’s drunk, but he’s not lying, he would never, not about this, “We’re never turning you lose, you know that, right, Cas?”

“Yes, Sam,” Castiel says, twisting his arm free until he can slide his hand into Sam’s uninjured one. “I do.”

“ _I do,_ ” Sam giggles back, sudden gravity lost. He’s squinting, eyes heavy as he looks up at Castiel who is very close and warm. “You _would_ make a good husband.”

Castiel arches an eyebrow, amused. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Ours,” Sam specifies, then adds with some finality, “Castiel Winchester.”

The flicker of want in Castiel’s eyes seems to wake something in Sam, just barely peeking through the haze of sedatives even before Castiel whispers, “ _Yes_.”

Sam can’t get hard, for a number of reasons, but he still feels his body try, feels that familiar flash of warmth in his gut. He sucks in a breath. And another. And two more. “I am very high,” he says. He’s clenching Castiel’s hand in his.

“Yes, you are,” Castiel agrees unsteadily, then motions lightly with the arm still braced against Sam’s chest. “I will keep you grounded.”

Sam chuckles softly at that, can imagine Dean’s voice, “ _You nerd._ ” He tosses his arm around Castiel and pulls him over into the crook of his uninjured arm. “Yeah, you do.”

They listen to the shower run.

 

//

 

The next afternoon finds Sam nursing a beer and a headache.

Like the sensible sort of guy he is, he forces down a hardy breakfast before he takes a pill – one, _singular_ pill, washed down with a full glass of water and nothing else – because his arm still hurts like a motherfucker but he’s _never taking Dean’s advice again._ They’d woken up roughly at the same time, like dominoes, Dean tensing and Sam recognizing it in his sleep, snapping to consciousness and jostling Castiel where he’d had his head resting on Sam’s chest. They’d moved away from each other with no more words other than Sam muttering, “ _Fuck_ ,” and gingerly rotating his shoulder and trying not to stare to adoringly at Castiel’s sleep-pink face.

Now, he’s two beers in and watching Castiel shakily demolish a grand slam to recover from his second jab at healing Sam’s arm. His arm does feel better, with the pain no longer the terrible burning of freshly shredded skin, but instead a low throbbing ache under the itch of partly healed stitches – easy enough to ignore. He looks like Frankenstein, but he can use both hands to eat if he’s careful, so he’ll take what he can get.

Dean seems a little too chipper, but Sam knows his brother well enough to judge that his mood is not _entirely_ fake and also that asking would get him nowhere. He isn’t exactly clear on what he said that resulted in Dean sleeping on the edge of the bed with he and Castiel, but he can imagine it must’ve been something wrought enough that Dean doesn’t feel comfortable to make a joke of it.

Sam is in the process of trying to sort out what that could’ve been – he remembers panicking when Dean tried to pull Castiel out of his arms and usher him towards the shower, but not the exact words involved – when Dean pulls into a gas station. He gets out of the car to unhook the pump as Dean goes inside to pay, but when he turns around, he finds Castiel standing in his space. He nearly startles back into the gas pump, “ _Woah_ , hey there.”

“Hello,” Castiel says, but doesn’t make to move back. “Sam—” He cuts off, his face scrunching like he’s concentrating and, Sam thinks, like he’s more than a little nervous.

“What’s up, man?” Sam answers and his heart is crawling up his throat because—

“Do you remember what you said to me?” Castiel asks quietly.

_Sometimes I want to cut you up._

Sam doesn’t try to hide behind the pretense of wondering what Castiel means. The time after he’d dozed off and woken up to Castiel going to shower was murky with alcohol, drugs, and disrupted sleep, but before, he hadn’t been nearly out of it enough to lose his words to the haze of memory.

“Yeah, I, uh…” He shifts uncomfortably, looking down. He had meant to apologize just then, to excuse it as drunken rambling. He wonders if the guilty relief of telling that lie would be harder to carry than the fear he feels right now. It takes him too long to decide.

Castiel nods slightly when Sam doesn’t continue speaking. “Did you mean it?”

Sam turns away when the gas pump dings, wincing. “Is that the real question?” he asks Baby’s gas tank, doesn’t look up until Castiel snags his sleeve.

They both appear hesitant when they lock gazes, but Castiel’s voice sounds uncharacteristically small when he asks, “Would you really do it?”

There isn’t any space for guilt with the heat suddenly blooming in Sam’s chest the second he registers Castiel isn’t asking with trepidation or disgust. He sounds more curious than anything, _interestedly_ so. “Would you stop me?”

“No,” Castiel answers quickly enough that it makes Sam’s stomach turn.

“Would you _want_ to stop me?” Sam emphasizes, because he’s—ok, he’s a _sadist_ , but he’s not going to… let himself go _there_. He isn’t sure he’d be able to pump the breaks on that slope.

Castiel swallows, gives the question thought. Then quietly admits, “No, I wouldn’t.”

Sam swallows in kind. “Then yeah, I would.”

 

//

 

Sam is kneeling over Castiel’s waist, blade in hand.

Part of him wants to use one of their regular knives, a hunting knife, one that he is familiar with, that has kept him safe and molded to his hand. He casts that thought aside pretty quickly after having it, though. The thought of carving up Castiel with a knife that something has died on the end of makes Sam’s hair stand on end. Sam will not let death touch Castiel.

He’d bought, and sanitized, a new utility knife.

Castiel lets out a slow breath when Sam comes into the room with it, closing the door behind himself.

It’s been weeks because Sam is a perfectionist and wants to do this right. The fact that Castiel was willing to bleed, to endure that sort of pain for him, meant that he wasn’t going to pull any stops making sure he did it correctly. And an unfortunate result of an interesting life is that he has pretty sound skills for carving things up. He thought, for one solitary moment, he might ask a professional, but was blindsided by a wave of such intense possessiveness he had to consciously unclench his fists. Sam doesn’t know how Castiel will react, but he doesn’t want to find out with a stranger’s eyes on him, it has to be him. Or Dean, but. But Sam knows Dean is even more afraid of his insides than he is. Sadism isn’t something Dean can touch again, not yet. In some twisted way, Sam feels like the finished product could be a gift.

“You can say no,” Sam says, voice unintentionally low. He is equally divided between wanting him to and hoping he doesn’t. He’s also ignoring how distressingly turned on he is.

“I could,” Castiel says, but instead, takes off his shirt and sits on the bed.

Sam doesn’t mean to rush forward like that, but there he is, towering over Castiel one hand touching his face before sliding down to grip the side of his neck. “ _Cas._ ”

“Sam…” Castiel says as he lets himself fall back.

“You can say no,” Sam repeats quietly because he has to, thumb stroking firmly under the hinge of Castiel’s jaw. He’s trembling under Sam’s hand.

Castiel takes a breath, his own hand coming up to clutch at the sleeve of Sam’s shirt. “I don’t want to.”

It feels like things are moving in slow motion compared to Sam’s heartbeat as he gets set up. The towels he gets under Castiel’s back are in no way going to save the sheets, but it’s a part of the process he set up in his head and he doesn’t want to deviate. He has to stay focused on what his hands are doing or he’ll get lost in the way Castiel’s eyes are blown wide and he’s staring up at Sam like he’s a revelation and he’s warm and slack between Sam’s knees.

“Keep your hands on my thighs,” Sam says and he takes a moment to gather his breath when Castiel does. He rubs alcohol across Castiel’s chest; he doesn’t know if angels can even get infections, but there’s enough risk in this already. “If it gets to be too much, don’t move, just tell me. I don’t want to mess it up.”

“Ok, Sam,” Castiel says.

The blade is steady in Sam’s hand when he picks it up, in complete contrast to the excited vibration in his chest. “Ready?”

Castiel nods, settling further into the bed. “Ready.”

However, as soon as Sam sets his hand on Castiel’s chest, feels him go trustingly still and consciously control his breathing, he pauses. “I’d… bless it if I knew how,” he says softly.

“You do know how,” Castiel replies and Sam’s gaze snaps back to his. “Whatever it is you want it to mean, you have to believe it, with everything you have.” His brow furrows. “I don’t take your loyalty lightly. Neither should you.”

Sam shakes his head sharply. “I don’t, Cas, not at all, I—”

“I mean in the cosmic sense,” Castiel soothes, stroking Sam’s thigh. “Human willpower is a very potent blessing, Sam.”

Sam swallows his mild panic. “And you’d… willingly be bound to me like that?” He’s heard the answer before; he could stand to hear it again given that the urge to bind Castiel to him is almost strong enough to overcome his ability to ask first.

“I am willingly bound to you,” Castiel reminds him, trailing a hand up Sam’s chest, his ribs, making Sam twitch, tickled. His mouth quirks. “Plenty of people get married without rings, Sam.”

The analogy makes Sam a little giddy and he chuckles, ducking his head. “ _Adornment_.”

“Adornment,” Castiel smiles back, letting his hands rest on Sam’s thighs.

A surge of love rises in Sam’s chest, followed closely by a dark tide of desire. His grip on the knife tightens as he bends double to press his lips over Castiel’s heart, feeling it trip a beat under his lips. “Don’t move,” he orders.

Castiel doesn’t even speak.

Sam has practiced this pattern on his own time since the moment he realized what he was going to do, draws it on carefully with a marker with ease. Even just the dark blue ink stained across Castiel’s chest is enough to set his heart to pounding. He presses his hand down more for the grounding feeling of Castiel breathing under his palm than to actually hold Castiel down. When he presses the tip of the blade down, Castiel lets out a slow breath, hands clenching tighter on Sam’s thighs. Sam ignores the line of blood swelling up and running down Castiel’s peck, though it takes some effort, and focuses on keeping the cuts clean.

For the first quarter, Castiel is completely still, eyes alternating between spacy middle-nowhere and hyper-fixated on Sam’s face. His good sense, or perhaps his obedience, keeps him from ducking his chin to see Sam’s hands. They’re covered in blood and Sam feels like he realizes this in a series of long-exposure pictures; he’d been too conscious of the design to think about it, and _his_ good sense is the only thing that keeps his hands away from his mouth. He carefully peels away another piece of skin, watching Castiel’s mouth drop open as he does. His hands are sweating through Sam’s jeans.

“You’re doing good, Cas, so good,” Sam says.

Castiel’s face twinges like he might cry. “Thank you.”

Sam pauses to swipe the blood away from the uncut portion of Castiel’s chest, before he starts again, but now he’s noticing it’s harder to keep his lines steady. He realizes that Castiel has gone from shaking to subtly arching and twisting under Sam’s hands like he can’t keep still – it looks like he’s trying to follow Sam’s motions. Sam only has to raise his eyes for Castiel to stop, though, licking his lip nervously. “Sorry.”

“Do you need a break?”

“No,” Castiel replies. But moments later his hands start moving instead, stroking distractingly up and down Sam’s thighs. When he gets a little too close to the line of Sam’s cock, soft at the moment but too easily interested, Sam has to stop again.

Sam carefully lifts the knife away as he kneels up. “Put your hands on my calves,” he says before the distress in Castiel’s eyes can come out of his mouth. When Castiel does, Sam sits back down, trapping Castiel’s hands in the crook of his knees. “You can touch me anywhere you want after,” he adds cheekily. He’s glad the knife is still in the air at this point, because Castiel is suddenly gasping underneath him, writhing and – Sam’s mind scatters – _hard._

“ _Sam!_ ” he gasps, as close to desperate as Sam has ever heard him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sam mutters and he should look away, he should look straight up and count his breaths, think of anything else but _this_ , because this is the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his whole fucking life and, isn’t that fucked up? His best friend the angel, bleeding wounds covering half his chest, squirming and on the brink of tears, and _chubbing up under Sam’s ass_. Sam clenches his knees tighter together to stop the movement. “Cas…”

“Sorry,” Castiel grits out, hands tight on Sam’s muscles, but not pulling away. “Sorry, I’ll—be good.” The words come out a little disjointedly like he realized in the middle of voicing them that he hadn’t meant to let them out, but there they are, kicking a giant hole in Sam’s train of thought.

“You _are_ good,” Sam replies, voice low and soft, meant to be soothing, but just a touch too gravelly. His heart jumps when Castiel actually whimpers. “This is so hard, but you’re doing great. You’re being _so_ good, Cas.” He leans down to kiss Castiel’s cheek and the only sign he’s startled by Castiel turning to catch is lips is in the way his pulse stumbles. Castiel kisses gently like he’s afraid and Sam never wants him to feel that way. Sam kisses him again before whispering against his lips, “You’re very good, but I need you to be _still_ , too. Can you do that for me, Cas?”

Their noses bump together slightly when Castiel nods, looking up at Sam like he might not actually be able to see anything else. “It hurts.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees breathily, then swallows. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Never.”

Sam smiles. “Do you _need_ me to stop?” He gives Castiel a moment to assess himself.

“No,” he decides eventually. Sam doesn’t ask him again.

The grip Castiel has on Sam’s calves is distracting in its own way, but it’s not nearly as intense as having them on his thighs. Sam occasionally pauses to look up at his face with the intent of checking in, but every time he does the far-away look he’s had in his eyes since Sam last spoke kicks him in the chest again. He’s just started on the last letter when he has an out of body experience, seeing himself leaning down to kiss across the cuts on Castiel’s chest, the wounds he gave him, getting Castiel’s blood on his lips, flicking the ridges of skin with his tongue, getting Castiel _inside, inside, inside him_. It scares the hell out of him that he can’t tell if he just says it or actually moves to do so, but Castiel is gasping out loud, strangling what would have otherwise been a sob.

It is that sound, Sam will realize later, that makes Dean open the door.

Sam hears the knob twist and is only stopped from unintentionally tearing skin by his quick reflexes making him freeze, even though his gaze jerks up to where Dean is standing wide-eyed in the doorway. Years, a whole _lifetime_ of being around Dean and he’s never seen that specific look of fear on his brother’s face. He does recognize, though, the barely noticeable shift in his brother’s stance that means he’s jumped to a conclusion and Sam’s about to get hit like a freight train.

“Dean…”

Castiel apparently recognizes it, too, and his hand is suddenly yanking out from Sam’s leg. Though he visibly strains with the effort to do so, he uses his grace to hold Dean in place. “Don’t make him mess up,” he says unsteadily.

“Ok,” Dean says shooting for ‘calming’ and hitting ‘stressed’ dead center. “Ok, take it easy,” then to Sam, “Take it easy, Sam, put the knife down.”

“Calm down, Dean,” Sam says probably sounding exactly as calming as Dean just had. Who cares if he’s in the bunker and Dean was supposed to be out? He should’ve locked the fucking door. “Everything is ok, Cas is fine.”

“Everything is _not_ fine, Cas’ _blood_ is all over you,” Dean snaps tightly and Sam hates the look on his brother’s face, he looks betrayed and scared. “I just heard him crying through the _freakin’_ door.”

“And he still stopped you from stopping me,” Sam says. “I wouldn’t hurt him if he wouldn’t let me.”

“ _Let_ you?” Dean replies, clearly aghast. “Is that the only bar for this, whether or not he’d _let_ you?”

Sam feels himself flash with actual hurt momentarily. “Of course not,” he snaps, but adds quietly, “There’s more than one way to show love, Dean.”

“You don’t ‘ _love_ ’ someone around the business end of a box cutter, Sam!!”

“Don’t we?” Sam laughs back, more than a bit sardonically. “Everyone we’ve ever loved has wound up in the meat grinder at some point, isn’t that just as bad? No, it’s _worse_. All our friends gone, and half of them never even _heard_ us say we—” Abruptly, Sam does put the blade down, eyes wide and horrified. “ _Cas_ ,” he gasps and then his lips are on Castiel’s face, “Cas, Cas, I love you.”

Castiel makes a soft, almost breathless sound, off hand clenching on Sam’s leg when Sam’s hand smears his blood across his face, holding him still as he kisses his mouth.

“I love you so much, I’m so sorry, I didn’t say—”

“I knew,” Castiel gasps. His is face twisted with a different sort of pain, his eyes no longer foggy. He’s staring at Sam with all the intensity he has in him. “Sam, I _know_ …” his voice cracks and, abruptly, he _is_ crying, “I love you, too.”

“This is so fucking twisted,” Dean mutters, coming forward. “Ok, he said it, now get off—”

“No!” Castiel exclaims, grabbing for Sam’s wrists in a panicked flurry that surprises all three of them. “No, don’t leave, please finish it, I swear I’ll be—”

“Shh,” Sam whispers, craning close enough to kiss Castiel’s cheek, because even his pain is easier than the look in Dean’s eyes right now. “Breathe, Cas, we’re not leaving you. Dean isn’t saying that.”

Dean’s face twists. “What? Of course not! I’m—” He looks even more confused by Castiel’s confusion. “What the fuck, Sam, what the _fuck_?”

“Your ribs,” Castiel says, sounding hurt and lost and this wasn’t supposed to be like this, “I thought you’d…”

“This is not the same thing!” Dean exclaims, but he rears back in shock when Castiel’s face crumbles.

Sam shushes him again, his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Dean doesn’t mean we don’t want you,” he says gently, lifting his eyes towards Dean though he speaks with his lips against Castiel’s skin. “He’s just saying he doesn’t want you hurt, doesn’t want me to hurt you.”

Dean’s face flickers like he’s being accused. “Why the hell _would_ I want that?”

Castiel looks dazedly over at Dean, realization slowly creeping in. “Because I want to feel it,” he whispers and Sam’s blood spikes hot with arousal, for the first time tonight, he is actively hard.

The shock on Dean’s face is plain to see, but so is the ruddiness suddenly in his cheeks. “You…” He swallows. “You _want_ to be…”

“You don’t have a monopoly on appreciating pain,” Castiel says a bit gruffly, “I want this, I _want_ you to do whatever you want with me.”

In an instant, though, Dean’s face flashes white as a sheet and Sam doesn’t understand why until Castiel continues shakily, “I know you tried so hard, but I heard you praying to me.”

Dean staggers backwards. “ _Cas_.”

“I haven’t heard prayers in ages, but you and Sam,” his hand reaches up and trails shakily along Sam’s rib and Sam wonders how much he heard that first night, goes warm at the thought. “There’s so much feeling with you, you’re so _close_ , I couldn’t ignore…”

“ _Castiel_ ,” Dean tries again, voice shaking.

“I know—” Castiel swallows, tries again. “I know what I am, I know where I’m from. I know who made me, but I have no illusions about who I was made _for._ ”

Sam watches Dean’s eyes go nearly black with want, mouth dropping open with something like shock. It takes him a while to speak, his eyes flickering fretfully between Castiel and Sam, but his voice is all fucked up and dark when he croaks, “You’re ours.” It sounds like a question.

“I’m yours,” Castiel agrees firmly, but it quickly turns into breathless crying. “So please don’t tell him to stop, he won’t do it if you won’t let him, Dean, he trusts you too much, please, I…”

“Is…?” Dean starts to ask something and Sam can guess, it has something to do with too much pain, or consent, or angel blood. It’s something about Sam and why he’s holding Castiel down, why Castiel was crying; it’s something that would imply uncertainty at best, outright mistrust at worse.

Sam watches Dean decide not to say it and feels the same peacefulness settling in his spirit that he had when Castiel had marked Sam as his. Dean is hear and on board, Sam can’t make this bad, not if Dean’s will is shored up right beside his. Some of that must show in his face because Dean’s gaze eases where it’s settled on him – Sammy is still here, he hasn’t lost anything, nor is he going to. He’s gaining something, the blood and pain here like the birth of a new brother.

“Dean?” Castiel says and Dean comes forward, hands up easily like that would make a damn bit of difference if he wanted to disarm Sam. His eyes just skip over the knife, though, going directly to the sigils on Castiel’s chest.

“Can you read it?” Sam asks. Dean’s Latin is pretty solid, but Sam doesn’t actually know how much Enochian he can read.

“No,” Dean answers, “but I know what it says.”

“How?”

Dean just looks at him flatly, though not sarcastically.

“What does it say?” Sam asks.

 “Winchester,” Dean says with finality and pride.

Castiel lets out a shuddering breath, tears streaking down his face. “ _Please._ ”

Something shifts in Dean then, Sam watching as his breathing suddenly changes, labored but quiet like he’s trying to hide it. He half reaches towards Castiel before his whole body locks up like he might not be allowed, eyes snapping over to Sam’s chest, unable to meet his eyes.

Sam’s hand is tacky with drying blood when he reaches up towards him, Dean’s eyes dragging across the red-brown tinge of his fingers. “ _Winchester,_ ” he says. “Not _Sam_ , not alone, never.”

Dean swallows when he finally meets his brother’s gaze, nodding slightly like he almost can’t believe it. His next step puts him right up against the edge of the bed and, to Sam’s surprise, catches his hand, breath trembling as he does.

“Please,” Castiel says again, staring at his blood smudging from Sam’s to Dean’s hand. “Let us have this, all of us.”

“One more letter,” Sam says absently, staring as well.

(He remembers holding his brother’s hand in a very distant sort of way. Last time, he was small and scared and Dean was walking fast to avoid a police officer who wouldn’t understand, his hand tight around Sam’s as they hoofed it to the next town. Sam remembers this, but it doesn’t feel like it was actually him. This – blood under his nails, an angel between his legs, his brother by his side, all of them old and very tired and _very_ in love and for once so unafraid – feels real. This is really Sam and Dean Winchester. This is really Castiel Winchester.)

Dean lets his fingers fall lightly just under the lowest part of the lettering, right where Sam had stopped when he walked in. Castiel twitches and lets out a sigh at the sensation, whimpers when Dean pulls it and it starts to seep again.

Sam can make it bleed more. “Hold his hand down.” He swallows when Dean doesn’t even hesitate, closing Castiel’s hand between both of his. Sam picks of the knife. “He’ll be good for us, won’t you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Castiel says, but it turns into a hissing breath when Sam goes back to peeling his skin off his chest, now just over his heart. When the last piece of skin is between his fingers, he feels Dean leaning warm against his shoulder.

“Last part,” Dean says and frees one of his hands to lay it on Castiel’s side, just out of Sam’s way, still letting blood trickle over the back of his hand. Sam licks his lips and looks away; he’s gotten too far to lose focus so close to the end. He slides the blade under the last bit of skin and almost the second it comes away, Castiel’s lips start to tremble, a low sound starting in the back of his throat like he can’t quite stop it. When Sam reaches to touch his cheek, Castiel turns into his palm wordlessly, smearing his own blood across his face.

“Are you ok?” Dean asks, thumb rubbing gently across the edge of the end of their name.

Castiel starts sobbing. “I’m _yours_.”

Sam wants to be surprised when Dean leans around him, but he’s not, not at all. Dean moves slow, telegraphs his movements the whole way, giving time for Sam to put his weight fully on Castiel before he starts thrashing. Dean puts his hand on the center of Castiel’s chest for balance as he leans over to mutter, “ _Damn right_ ” against his lips before he kisses his wailing mouth.

It’s not quite the same level of out-of-body experience he’d had earlier, but Sam can’t really explain why he puts his hand on Dean’s head. Maybe it’s because for all the spaces that they’ve shared, he’s never been this close to Dean while he was kissing someone and it’s… _boy_ , it’s something. Dean hasn’t got too much weight on Castiel’s wounds, but then again he doesn’t need much – severed skin hurts like a bitch _without_ pressure. The sound Castiel is making isn’t quite screaming, but it’s still uncontrolled and loud and Dean is kissing him around it and Sam takes a dizzy moment to wonder how often Dean has kissed people when they’re pushed beyond words. He’s good at it and Sam wants to—he just _wants_ , and he’s pressing Dean down deeper, watching his brother’s teeth scrape and tongue stroke Castiel’s lips.

When he grumbles – not angrily, not in warning, a voice hot and dark and just for their ears – “ _Sammy_ ” into Castiel’s mouth, Sam finds his impulse control shattered. His mouth crashes down dangerously close to Dean’s, _touches_ his, and _this_ , this is it, this is them.

They’re kissing Castiel’s blood and tears out of his mouth, Sam repeatedly saying “ _We love you_ ”, Dean repeatedly saying, “ _We got you, angel_ ” and Castiel can’t stop crying. Partly out of pain, yes, but Sam thinks he can hear something like relief in his gasps as well. The second his hand is freed from Sam’s leg, Castiel is fisting it in his shoulder, clinging.

Sam wants to put his hands on him in the _worst_ sort of way, but he puts his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of his blood directly from the source. “I don’t want you to pass out on us,” he whispers and it’s true enough that he doesn’t feel guilty. “You should rest.”

Sniffing, Castiel gives some sort of motion that could be nodding or shaking his head, Sam can’t really tell. He wheezes when Dean takes his hand off the wounds, resting stickily on his stomach instead. “Hurts.”

“I know,” Dean says. “Took it like a trooper, though,” which if Sam had to guess is the closest Dean has ever gotten to, “ _you were a good boy_ ” – judging by Castiel’s face, he knows it.

Sam licks some tears off his cheek, because he’s close and he can. “Can you heal it?”

“But I want it to scar,” Castiel slurs sulkily. Dean swears softly, kissing and biting at his jaw, making Castiel shift up under Sam.

“We know,” Sam says and tenses to avoid grinding himself on Castiel, “Just a little, then, to stop the bleeding for now. Can you do that?”

“…I’d have to sleep after,” Castiel replies eventually, “Probably immediately after.” His eyes close when Dean moves to nose at his ear, a touching gesture that is surprisingly not uncharacteristic at all.

“I’ve handled a drunk giant before, I think the two of us can handle a sleepy angel,” Dean says warmly.

“Screw you,” Sam says just as warmly, stroking Castiel’s face when he lets out a breath that’s nearly a laugh. “Don’t worry about it, Cas, we’ll clean you up and put you to bed.”

Castiel’s eyes crack open at him. His eyes are still foggy with blown pupils, but he looks a little hesitant, more self-aware than Sam would like. “Can I…?”

“Anything,” Sam replies. “What is it?”

“I’d like…” Castiel’s gaze flickers between them, lingers nervously on Dean. “I don’t want to wake up alone.”

For such a simple request, it comes off as heavy. None of them have to wonder why.

Dean’s face is serious, regardless of the flush high on his cheeks and his slick lips, he suddenly looks grave. Where Sam’s answer was instantaneous on his tongue and he had to restrain it, it takes Dean a minute to grit out, “Cas, I would never do that to you.” He doesn’t let himself shy away from looking Castiel in the eyes, “Not you, not like this.”

The last visages of tension leave Castiel and he goes slack beneath them, breath steady and light. “I want to sleep with you.”

“Then sleep,” Sam says. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

Castiel’s face is sweetly adoring when he looks at Sam, reaching up to touch Sam’s hair, close a hand around the side of Dean’s neck. “Thank you,” he says softly, then lets his eyes close, furrowing his brow in concentration. Sam looks down to watch the _WINCHESTER_ scab over and Castiel’s head loll off to one side, breathing easily in his sleep.

The tension that Sam half expected without Castiel as a buffer is nearly absent except for the way they don’t seem to know what to say to each other. There is so much here between them now and Sam wants to give words to all of it, let Dean hear it unbuffered. But when Sam looks up to meet his brother’s eyes, he finds Dean is already staring at him, face open with wonder.

“You’ve got…” Dean half reaches for Sam’s face before realizing whatever he was about to wipe off would probably only be made worse by the blood on his own hand. Swallowing, Sam understands what’s about happen before it does and freezes in place, afraid to ruin the moment.

Dean’s mouth is on his face; it’s a lot, it’s _so fucking much_ Sam can’t let himself take more right now, not when Dean’s breath is shaking on his skin as he licks Castiel’s blood off Sam’s cheek. Still, he turns slightly so his nose is pressed against Dean’s cheek, breathing unsteadily together. “I should shower.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, but doesn’t pull back for several breaths. When he does, he sets his gaze immediately on Castiel. “Let’s get him to my room.”

Rolling off Castiel, Sam turns to help Dean gingerly lift him off the bed. The sheets and towels are unsalvageable and Sam plans to burn them tomorrow, but for now, focuses on keeping Castiel’s head from flopping around too much. Sam is half expecting Dean to lay Castiel out on his bed and pull up a chair to sit vigil, as he has so many times before. It seems like he almost does, too, until he sits on the bed himself, back against the headboard and Sam helps him settle Castiel against his chest.

“Shut up,” Dean mumbles defensively and Sam realizes he’s grinning.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Sam says, but doesn’t wipe the smile off his face. “Rite of passage, I know.” Dean holds everyone in his life, at least once, especially when they’re tired and newly his. Castiel has a lot of catching up to do.

It would be easy for Sam to bring himself off, the thought hits him as soon as he closes the door to the bathroom like it’d been waiting. Everything since the moment he walked into Castiel’s room, multiplied by Dean’s mouth, warm and wet on his face, has him spinning on the brink of an orgasm. He wants it so badly he doesn’t want it at all, not like this. It feels like something that… _belongs_ to Castiel. Sam didn’t get him off even when he was hard and rolling up against Sam’s ass, he made him wait, suffer without an orgasm to round it off. This pleasure belongs to him, too. Maybe even belongs to Dean, like they should all share it and, _there’s a thought._

Sam washes the blood off then throws the shower to cold, quickly rinsing and returning to his brothers.

The fact that Dean doesn’t pause guiltily where he stroking his hand across Castiel’s stomach is telling and Sam doesn’t say anything about it, turning out the overhead light. He puts the little wash basin on the floor beside the bed and starts wiping the blood off Castiel’s body, cautiously watching his face for any lines of pain as he does. He catches Dean by the hand before he can even move to get up, bathe himself. He isn’t nearly in as bad a state as Sam was, there’s no reason for him to leave.

There’s also no reason for Sam to wash his hands for him, but he sits with his hip pressed against Dean’s thigh and does just that. Even when he is well past having an excuse for holding his brother’s hand, he drops the rag into the basin and clutches it between his.

The words Sam wants to give Dean are there again, right behind his lips, but the quiet here is too kind right now, too soft and loving for him to want to break it with a soliloquy. He would start waxing poetic and the Winchesters have never been ones for poetry; he would just embarrass Dean and he never wants this to be about that. The Winchesters may not love themselves, but the unrepentantly – _wholeheartedly, violently, loyally, unfailingly_ – love each other. Dean knows this. Even so, Sam is shaking with the effort to not try and put that into words right now. He brings Dean’s fingers up to his lips, just holds them there as if his breath could carry the words his tongue cannot.

“Sam,” Dean says and Sam’s heart stalls in his chest when Dean pulls his hand away, only to pound when Dean uses it to cup his face. His eyes are light in a way they haven’t been since they were children when he looks down at his little brother.

“Dean,” Sam says back with the level of devotion some people use for prayers. He shuts his eyes when Dean’s hand runs slowly through his hair.

“Go to sleep, Sammy,” Dean says gently, pushing Sam towards the empty space beside him.

Sam goes over easily. “You?”

“No,” Dean says, then shifts sheepishly, closing his arms tighter around Castiel, ducking his head until his cheek is against his head. “I wanna watch for a bit.”

Sam turns his smile into the pillow case, snorting when Dean flicks his hair across his cheek, sighing when he goes back to stroking his head. It’ll probably wake Sam up when Dean finally decides to lay down, moves to lay Castiel between them, when he reaches to turn off the lamp and find and new warm spot.

Something about that, however, just makes it easier to put his hand on Castiel’s leg, turn into his brother’s palm and shut his eyes.

 

//

 

Dean stops breathing when Sam comes into view with the knife, pristine enough that he knows it’s been cleaned again since it was placed in storage. His eyes are a little wide, confused. “Sammy?”

“I don’t want you to feel pressured,” Sam starts. “Ever, ok? Tell me if—” He has to swallow to keep speaking, “ _Stop me_ if it’s too much.”

(Here is a secret: For all that he hopes for, Sam is constantly terrified of taking too much from his brother who has already proven he would give everything for him.)

“If what’s too much, Sam?” Dean asks slowly; he can hardly keep his eyes off the knife. Not like he’s afraid of it, no, it’s a bigger emotion than that. Hope is almost always bigger than fear.

(Here is a secret: For all that he denies it, Dean is constantly hoping for things from his brother, things he’s only recently realized he would willingly give.)

Silently, Sam turns the knife around, handle extended towards Dean. “Your initials.” He takes a nervous step back when Dean’s face pinches. “Stop me,” he repeats, quieter.

“Why?” Dean asks, because he has to know. Sam knows this and tries his best to articulate it.

“You said… for you the marks were about being… home,” Sam’s voice gets quiet when he says that, unfamiliar with what it could mean outside of being with Dean. He shifts, nervously. “That’s what I want to—that’s what I _am._ Whatever I’m destined for, free will or _not_ , I’m destined to do it with you.” He makes himself look Dean in the eyes. “You’re the only home I’ve ever had.”

Dean lets out a slow breath in response to that, licking his lips before he wipes a hand over his mouth. His mouth twitches with the sort of smile that implies he doesn’t actually think anything is funny, is presently fighting between the urges to minimize and be completely serious. He lands somewhere in the middle, “Doesn’t that mean your tag should be on me?”

Sam shrugs, because yeah, he would love that, but that isn’t exactly what he’s asking right now. “It doesn’t have to.” He huffs a quiet laugh, “I like adornments.”

The silence stretches for long enough that Sam starts to get nervous, but then Dean just shakes his head, looking down with a smile. “Get Cas in here,” he says and Sam brightens, love-warm and still lust-hot, immediately.

 

Here is the truth, it is not a secret: Dean takes the knife.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading… may you be adorned in all the ways that make you feel loved
> 
> Gee, this… this is a mess, isn’t it? I’m beginning to think I have an exposition problem… hm.
> 
> (Oh, hopefully unnecessary reminders: mixing painkillers and liquor can fuck up your liver so… don’t. And scarification is a complicated, painful, and dangerous process, do not DIY.)


End file.
